


Both Sides Now

by Lunasong365



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Flying, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Apocalypse, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:50:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4432727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Demon (re)Gains His Wings</p>
<p> <i>I've looked at clouds from both sides now</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Both Sides Now

 

Sometime before August 1990

 

Crowley was buried in a nest of Egyptian cotton and plush duvet. He was dreaming of flight…that feeling of lift under one’s wings, the subtle change in direction gained by the pivot of one pinion feather, the thrill of being on the edge of control caused by an unexpected wind gust…

He awoke, and sighed. Sure, demons had wings. Crowley had wings. Crowley’s wings were the best groomed of any demon he knew, and certainly better than the one angel’s he knew best. He spent hours ensuring each feather was glossy perfection – the state of perfection that something can hold only when it is never used for its purpose. And sure, most demons could fly.

 Crowley couldn’t fly. He’d been grounded since the Garden, when Himself had sanctioned him to “crawl in the dust.” The only flying he did nowadays was at excessive speed in the Bentley - and in his dreams. In Crowley’s all too frequent and lengthy escapes to Morpheus, flying was one of the few unattainable pleasures of which he dreamed.

The only dust in his life was at a certain angel’s bookshop.

Crowley stretched and resignedly swung his feet around to the floor. Standing, he materialized himself a suit and glanced out the window as he made his way out of the bedroom. _Rain._ Walking through his spotless lounge on his way to the kitchen, he turned on the radio, then prepared water for a cup of tea by glaring at the kettle.

 ”…London is experiencing its third straight day of precipitation and with temperatures dropping throughout the day to near zero, there is a chance of sleet…” Crowley clicked the radio off and checked the calendar date on his watch. He’d slept through two of those rainy days, and with a third predicted, his job would likely be adequately performed by human nature. Somewhat cheered by the thought of a day off, Crowley half-heartedly threatened his Swiss cheese plant. He raised his eyes to the window, where a sparrow was huddling on the ledge for shelter. _Damned birds can fly; I can’t._ Crowley made an angry gesture toward the bird and it winged away into the mist.

Crowley grabbed his overcoat and, on second thought, wrapped the Scottish wool muffler Aziraphale had given him for Christmas around his neck. It had originally been tartan, but was now a more muted, tasteful pattern. Aziraphale hadn’t said anything about the change and it was cold outside. He headed downstairs to where the Bentley was waiting at the kerb, just as he’d known it would be.

As he stepped outside, Crowley looked up to the sky. The clouds hung dark and low, and the raindrops were so fine that visibility was greatly reduced. _On days like this, it’s difficult to believe there’s sun and blue skies above those clouds._ Oh, well. It would be warm and dry in the Bentley, and he was headed toward Aziraphale’s.

Crowley parked outside the shop and sauntered purposefully up the steps. He ignored the “CLOSED” sign on the door as the locked doorknob turned easily in his grasp. The door chime jingled as the demon entered the shop and shook off his overcoat and muffler.

There was no sign of the angel, so Crowley hung his over-garments on the coat tree and sprawled on the sofa to wait. He flipped through a couple of periodicals left on the end table.

Presently, Aziraphale entered the great room of the bookshop entry, balancing a tall stack of books in one arm and holding a long sheet of paper in one hand. “Oh, hello, Crowley!” he beamed, then frowned meaningfully at the puddles on the floor near the front entrance. They fizzled to nothing. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” Aziraphale set the books down on the desk next to the plasticky computer.

“’t’s raining.”

“It’s always a lovely day in God’s world, that’s what I say.” Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“Would you like some coffee?” Aziraphale continued. When Crowley assented, the angel retreated to the back room and returned carrying two steaming mugs. He stopped in the doorway to collect a couple of coasters.

“Yes, weather like this; that’s Nature’s way of taking a break for some rest and restoration. You of all beings should understand that…”

“I had a dream last night,” interrupted Crowley.

Aziraphale stopped, and looked quizzically at Crowley. “Not that one with me in it again, I hope?”

Crowley knew exactly to which dream Aziraphale referred. The demon had made the mistake once of telling him about a dream in which Aziraphale and Crowley had become something a bit closer than business associates. Aziraphale had shut that conversation down so quickly that it was almost as if he feared to Fall just by being in the same room as it. _Funny_ , Crowley had thought at the time. _I didn’t know there was any law against talking._ Or daydreaming. Or having the reverie occupy many of his waking and sleeping moments since.

“No,” Crowley responded, and for a bizarre second thought he glimpsed disappointment cross the angel’s countenance. He sat up on the sofa as Aziraphale moved through the room. He handed Crowley the mug of coffee with the coaster and sat opposite with his own in the tartan armchair.

Crowley took a sip of his coffee. _Perfect_ , he thought. _Just like…_ No, the angel was far from perfect. But lately, whenever he was with him, Crowley felt more… _complete._ In Crowley’s mind, Aziraphale had acquired an aura of perfection whose origin was difficult to deduce. Even now, there seemed to be a glow about him - shaking his head to clear the thought, Crowley realized it was just the backlit, free-floating dusty motes of the bookshop.

“It’s flying. In my dream I could fly again, and it seemed so real…I could feel the wind, I could feel the lift. I was diving through clouds. I felt so free…”

Aziraphale looked thoughtful. “Dream interpretation is somewhat a hobby of mine. There’s several instances in human history where interpretation of dreams led to a change in the course of events. One of the more accepted meanings of your dream signifies a release from emotional or mental strain or tension. The flying suggests you are free from anything that may have been bothering you like a stressful situation at work or conflict in a relationship. You are fearless and feeling positive and ready to handle anything!” He smiled at Crowley encouragingly.

The demon considered this. “Nah,” he finally said. “I think I just miss flying. Even all this time later, I haven’t forgotten what it feels like. Tell me, Aziraphale,” he continued, “do you still fly?”

The angel stared into his mug of coffee before answering. “Of course I can fly. But I live in a metropolis of six-and-a half million people, in a district where the denizens are up at all hours. In some ways it’s easier to be nondescript and anonymous in these times, but in others, it’s a lot more difficult. I can’t wipe minds. I’ve chosen to be incorporated in this body, and for the most part, I’ve accepted its limitations. Times have changed. One can’t explain visions of wings anymore as the product of legends. So yes, I can fly. But do I? No.

“Besides, your inability to fly is a Righteous Reckoning. You did something wrong and you deserved to be punished. I can’t argue with ineffability. And you’ve gotten along just fine without flight for six thousand years!”

Crowley stared gloomily into his own mug before setting it down on the end table and looking away. In his mind, six thousand years was a hell of a reckoning for his part in Someone Else’s plan, and right now he was feeling every one of those 2,191,453 days. When the angel was in one of these moods, he’d learned not to argue. Or to point out that somehow he’d turned into the angel’s prime means of transportation.

“Now,” said Aziraphale, looking pointedly toward the stack of books on his desk, “I have some work I need to be doing, so would you mind? That’s a dear boy.” Crowley had always gotten this hint. He got up from the sofa and shrugged into his overcoat whilst Aziraphale helped him with the muffler. Aziraphale held him at arm’s length by both shoulders and looked at him searchingly. “You will be all right, won’t you?”

“Right as rain,” Crowley muttered. _Perfection, my arse. What was I thinking a few minutes ago?_

He stepped through the door of the bookshop where outside, indeed, it had begun to sleet. The icy coating melted off the Bentley as the demon slid behind the wheel and glanced at the passenger seat. How many times had he driven Aziraphale on one of his errands across town to Do Good? How many times had they taken the car, just the two of them, for a day in the country? How many times had he sat at the wheel and listened as the angel nattered on about Nothing of Consequence whilst Crowley was replaying his recurring dream through his mind (and not the flying one)? How many times had Crowley held his tongue (in more ways than one)?

 

_And if you care, don’t let them know_

_Don’t give yourself away._

 

The Bentley drove away into the dismal afternoon.

  

Sometime After August 1990

 

Aziraphale stared mindlessly out the passenger window of the Bentley as Crowley drove south towards the downlands. They’d both agreed that getting out of London for the day was a good idea, and they certainly were not going to head west. Aziraphale had packed a picnic hamper with some cheeses and fruit, and several especially fine bottles of wine from the restocked cupboard in the backroom of the bookshop.

They really hadn’t talked much since That Day. No longer having roles to play had uncomfortably shifted the dynamic of their working relationship and they’d had difficulty setting a new course. Even now Crowley seemed tight-lipped and ill at ease as he manoeuvered the Bentley expertly around a shell-shocked hedgehog in the road. Aziraphale shifted in his seat and turned toward Crowley.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked pleasantly. Crowley scowled and looked at Aziraphale from over the top of his sunglasses. The demon’s yellow eyes had always seemed to glow with their own internal light, but now they just looked – tired.

“It’s the Arrangement,” Crowley finally responded. “It worked so well for a thousand years. I understood it – I was comfortable! And it wasn’t until the week when we finally figured out we’d misplaced the Antichrist that all that fear and dread of what they can do to you in Hell came back in a very real way. I thought I’d found a way to escape that! Now I’m left hanging with no role at all, and with only the promise of an eleven-year old boy that it’s all sorted out. It’s downright disconcerting, is what it is! I haven’t really slept since…”

“No sleep?” Concerned, Aziraphale regarded his friend. Indeed, he’d considered his adversary a friend for a very long time, even if he hadn’t been able to admit it – to himself or to Crowley. “Oh, dear. I understand how important that is to you. Without sleep, no dreams, right?”

“No dreams, no escape, no diversion,” muttered Crowley. “Just me and my thoughts about – inadequacy.” If his eyes had been lasers, he’d have burned two parallel bore holes through his sunglasses and the windscreen.

“If you’re anxious about the Arrangement, you have no worries from my end,” Aziraphale countered. “And I haven’t heard from my side either. Crowley, my dear boy, I’m here for you. I haven’t always done right by you in the past – I know that now – but if I’ve learned anything from recent events, it’s that we make an excellent team. There is no finer being I’d want at my side.”

Crowley suddenly swerved into a lay-by that Aziraphale was quite sure wasn’t on his map. Slamming the car into park, he leaned over and grabbed Aziraphale and – simply held him. Tightly. With his face buried in Aziraphale’s shoulder, Crowley whispered, “Thanksss. I needed to hear that.”

After uncountable moments, Aziraphale drew back and looked at Crowley, his eyes shining with more than emotion.

“I’ll get the damned blanket out of the boot,” Crowley grinned. “We’ll have our picnic right here.”

Aziraphale set out the cheeses and fruits, and uncorked the first of the wine bottles. He set the glasses on the hamper lid as an impromptu table. Filling them, he turned to Crowley, now seated beside him.

“To Adam,” Aziraphale toasted, lifting a glass. “We may no longer be allowed to mess with humans, but there is one class of beings he didn’t exclude.”

Crowley clinked. “Let me guess. Occult?”

Aziraphale smiled. “That’s ethereal to you.”

The two supernatural beings spent a pleasant afternoon picnicking and drinking and toasting and drinking some more. Crowley finally got in a long-overdue nap and, as he dozed on Aziraphale’s lap, the angel carefully laid himself back and looked up at the sky. It was one of those perfect late-summer afternoons with puffy white clouds set into a deep cerulean dome. Aziraphale amused himself – first by naming cloud shapes, then by zapping errant clouds out of existence. He lay very still to ensure the demon got the rest he so desperately needed.

Crowley woke up just as the sky was starting to darken in the east. The moon was rising in the southeast over the chalk cliffs and the ocean, edging the remaining clouds in the sky with a silvery light.

“Perfect sky,” he remarked sleepily.

“It’s always a perfect sky, Crowley.” The angel sat up with Crowley still in his lap. He affectionately ruffled the demon’s hair.

“Mmm. You know, I used to think you were perfect. Still do. Perfect, I mean. You. For me.” Crowley’s sentences were still somewhat incoherent with drowsiness, but Aziraphale knew exactly what he meant.

“You’re perfect, too, Crowley. I should have told you a long time ago.” The demon’s eyes opened wide at Aziraphale’s words.

“No, I’m not! I’m cursed! I’m been damned; I can’t fly…” Crowley turned his head so Aziraphale couldn’t see his face. Aziraphale gently cupped his hand around Crowley’s cheek to turn it back.

“No, you’re perfect. If I say you’re perfect, you are. That’s what…” Aziraphale hesitated, then plunged on, “…love does. You’ll always be perfect to me.”

Crowley sat up. “I had the flying dream again. And the dream with you.” He ran a hand through his mussed-up hair and bless him, _took off his sunglasses._ He took Aziraphale’s hands and smiled at him. “That one came true. Aziraphale, will you take me flying?”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled in the moonlight. “Crowley, if you manifest your wings for me, I’ll manifest mine for you.”

Trusting Aziraphale, Crowley unfurled his perfect, unused wings.

“Oh, they’re beautiful,” Aziraphale breathed. Revealing his own, he inspected Crowley’s wings. “Crowley, there’s nothing wrong with your wings. If you truly remember how to fly, I think you can. Will you take my hand?”

“I want to take it and never let go,” Crowley murmured.

 

_Tears and fears and feeling proud_

_To say “I love you” right out loud._

 

The two friends flew together into the perfect moonlit night.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is loosely structured on the bittersweet premise of Joni Mitchell’s song "Both Sides Now," but I’ve reversed it to create a more hope-filled scenario.  
> The "cloud-zapping" and "always a perfect sky" is borrowed from _Illusions - The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah_ by Richard Bach.  
>  Dream interpretation source: http://www.dreamdictionarynow.com/


End file.
